The Last Girl Guide: Diary of a Survivor

by Karen Wrighton

  It’s hard to believe that I haven't spoken to another person for almost a year and probably never will again. Sometimes, when I think about that, it's so terrifyingly profound that it makes me want to vomit. I wonder if Neil Armstong felt that way when he was exploring the moon. We must be two of the only people to know, with horrifying certainty, that no matter how far or how long we walk, we would never encounter another living soul. Though of course, he had other crew members on the space rocket, and a few billion people following his iconic voyage from Earth. I just have you.

  I am avoiding the subject, aren’t I? It’s difficult for me to think about it now, without all those overwhelmingly traumatic thoughts and emotions flooding back into my head as if it were yesterday. I dare not dwell on the horror of what happened for long, although sometimes I think that perhaps I should. Maybe I need to purge my mind of all its terrible memories, spew them out like some sad, bulimic teenager expelling their latest sugar-laden binge. Still, if we are to be friends, as friends share their experiences, good and bad, then I guess I should tell you what happened. ‘Better out than in.’

  It began last July just before the end of the term. At first, nobody seemed too concerned, though all the schools closed early for summer break. When Mr. Evans, our headmaster, told us in morning assembly, everyone celebrated with loud whoops. Joey Sanders turned up at registration that afternoon with his face painted with big red spots. He put his hands round his throat, stuck out his tongue and made choking sounds as he collapsed on the floor in a heap. The boys all laughed, they thought it was a big joke. Miss Jackson didn't though, she went very pale and let us go before the bell, she didn't even bother to take the register. None of us realised what it all meant then. That said, the way Miss Jackson acted really freaked me out. It was so unlike her, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that something terrible was going to happen, it was like that saying, the one that goes, ‘Someone just walked over my grave.’ That was the way I felt.

  The first people who got sick were in North America, in a city called Orlando. A few weeks later no one was talking about anything else. After the schools had been closed, the hospitals started cancelling everyone's operations. Mrs. Patel, who lived in the flat upstairs, had been waiting for two years for her hip operation. It was cancelled the day before she was due to go in. I don't think I ever saw anyone get so angry, not even Ma.

  A week later, the government banned all public events, and the army was brought in to help the ambulance service set up field hospitals in football stadiums and other similarly inappropriate places.

  A lot of the adults just stopped going to work then. Most people we knew just sat in front of their TVs watching the twenty-four-hour news, Ma and I did too. There was mass hysteria, everyone was terrified, no one trusted anyone anymore. People were under siege in their homes, they saw everyone else as a threat. Once, at school in our Social Studies class, we watched some old news coverage of 9-11. It felt like that, only it was happening now and to us. We could not escape the terror by pressing the off button on the remote. When we switched off the TV, the horror was still there, in the streets outside our windows, in the flat next door and, eventually, in our own sitting rooms.

  People were getting sick and dying. At first, it had been a few hundred. Within a couple of weeks, it seemed like everyone was ill. On the news, they interviewed a serious looking, silver-haired man. He wore a white coat, I think he was some sort of doctor. He said that a while back some Australian researchers had altered a mouse virus in an attempt to create a mouse contraceptive. However, instead of making a safe contraceptive for use in pest control, they managed to create a virus so deadly that it killed every mouse that became infected. 'They that have sown the wind shall reap the whirlwind.'

  What I remember most was his bright blue eyes, they didn't blink, not even once. His plastic face just stared into the camera, its features unmoving, each line deeply chiselled like a possessed, evil manikin.

  Some days I play the whole speech over and over in my head, like one of those tunes you can't stop humming. My own torturous little ear worm. I'll never forget what he said. It’s almost a year now, and I can still recite it word for word.

  "It appears that some misguided, warped individuals have used a similar technique on the human smallpox virus, purposely engineering a lethal, highly contagious strain of the virus. Consequently, we are now facing a plague of biblical proportions. We have no time to develop an effective vaccine, and with a mortality rate running at one hundred percent, well, there is no easy way to put this… It is unlikely that any of us will survive. This outbreak has been officially classified as an extinction level event. We are witnessing the death of humanity."

  That clip was repeatedly played, on every channel, in shops, pubs, doctor’s surgeries, everywhere. No matter where you went, you could not escape those unblinking blue eyes, looking through you as if you didn't exist, or those stiff lips, barely moving as the words spilled out. Soon, his words had flooded the world with a tsunami of fear and hopelessness. People were drowning in their panic, taking their own lives and those of their children, smothering tiny babies. Others, like Ma, lost themselves, disappearing into an abyss powered by alcohol or whatever other mind numbing substance that would stifle their terror.

  Ma said that God must be really pissed with us. When I survived, I thought that maybe he was not so pissed at me. Now I believe he hated me most of all. 'Death may be the greatest of all human blessings' - Socrates.

  14th July

  Man's Best Friend

  I was held hostage yesterday. It rained so hard I didn't go out all day. I just stayed here in front of the stove drawing, reading Swallows and Amazons and listening to the rhythm of the rainwater hitting the deck. I never gave a thought to the dog I saw on the tow path earlier. I just assumed that it would get tired of waiting and wander away, but I was wrong.

  This morning the sun rose into a clear cobalt sky. The birds decided to express their joy at this happy event in a cacophony of song, which was loud enough to wake even me. Their welcoming melodies seemed so inviting that I took my mug of tea and cereal up onto the deck. I enjoy eating breakfast outside when the weather is fine, the wharf is so beautiful when the sun shines, almost as cute as its name - Cuckoo Wharf (at least that’s what we locals call it).

  Though it was early, the sun was high enough to warm the deck and cause the rainwater to steam. On the tow path, the mist swirled, carpeting the ground like a shimmering mirage. That was possibly why I didn’t see her at first. I heard her, though, one long, soft, whimper rising above the sound of the birdsong. Looking in the direction of the sound I saw what I thought was a pile of dirty rags on the side of the bank. Then the pile of rags moved. It was the collie from yesterday.

  I knew I should keep well away, but the animal looked so pathetic that I felt drawn to her. I lowered the gangplank and inched my way towards her, watching for any sign of movement, which would be my signal to get back to Mona and pull up the plank as quickly as possible.

  She did not move until I knelt down beside her when she attempted to lift up her head, but it flopped back down. Then she lay so completely still, that I thought she had died, so I bent forward and felt her chest. Her ribcage barely lifted with each breath, but beneath my fingers, I felt the rhythmic thud, thud, thud, of a heartbeat.

  She is called Sal - it was engraved on her collar. Sal is a good name. Salvador Dali is one of my favourite artists. Dali and I have a lot in common, for instance; Dali’s brother died. My brother is dead too, he was my twin, but he came out all wrong. When Dali was five his father took him to his brother's grave and told Dali that he was the reincarnation of his brother. So I guess we have something else in common too; we had crap parents.

  Dali would paint images of his brother into his pictures, he even called one of them ‘Portrait of My Dead Brother’. I couldn’t draw my brother because I never got to see him, but sometimes I try to imagine what he would look like. I would love to have had a b
rother.

  I thought that maybe the dog being called Sal was a good omen, so I brought her on board. I know, as my friend, if you could you would probably tell me that this was a dreadful idea. I know it's not a good idea, but something told me that it was the right thing to do and I always try to do what is right. So, I loaded her onto the gangplank and dragged her on board.

  She’s lying here in front of the stove now. I doubt she’s eaten anything for days, I can count every rib, and her skin is covered in bite wounds. Most worryingly, though, she is so cold - as cold as a dead fish. When I first touched her I thought that she must be dead, nothing living should feel as cold as that.

  I earned my first aider badge last year, so I knew what that meant - hypothermia. I dried the dog as best as I could, and then I dressed Sal's wounds and covered her with a thick blanket. I even lit a fire, though it’s quite warm today, I figured she would still need it.

  To be sure, I checked in my Guide manual. This is what it said:

  ‘Hypothermia is something which happens when the body temperature drops below normal. It happens when someone sits for too long in a cold room or open space, or if you get very wet and stay wet for a long time.

  Treatment: Keep the person warm, take off any wet clothes and put on some fresh ones, including a woolly hat. If they become unconscious, put them in the recovery position and keep checking their breathing. If they are conscious give them a warm drink such as milk or cocoa and get a doctor.’

  I put a woolly hat on her. I used my old Nordic bobble hat with ear flaps and a pompom on the top. She looked so cute that I forgot to be scared, but then her head jerked up, and I realised that maybe I should have restrained her, though she is much too weak to do me any harm even if she wanted to. As I was contemplating restraining her, Sal looked at me for a few seconds and whimpered, the sound was so pitiful I almost cried. I warmed some milk, and she managed to lick some off a spoon.

  I have decided to tie a rope to her collar and tether her to the stove before I turn in, just in case she wakes in the night and gets a craving for a Harper flavoured snack. 'Safety doesn't happen by accident.'

  15th July

  Hungry like the Wolf

  The animal's gaping jaws locked onto my face, saliva dripping down my neck as its rough tongue scraped at my skin… I awoke to discover Sal licking my face. Somehow, she had managed to pull her head out of her collar and curl up next to me on the bunk. It wasn’t so surprising really when I think of it, the dog was so pitifully thin that it must have been relatively easy for her to slip off her collar, ‘the best-laid plans of mice and men…’

  Therefore, I am sitting on my bunk feeling rather lucky that I still have a face, and on a positive note, not only did Sal display a happy reluctance to eat me, but she does seem to rather like me.

  Her coat dried and when it fluffed up she didn’t look as thin. I gave her a bowl of cereals and milk for breakfast, but I can’t keep feeding her that, so I went back to the store to grab some dog food. This, again, was not to be one of the best decisions I had ever made.

  Getting the food was straightforward enough. I filled up the trolley and pushed it back along the towpath. About half way back I heard a low growl behind me. I know enough now, not to make any sudden moves, but I needed to know what I was dealing with. Turning my head slowly, I caught a glimpse of the animal.

  About thirty feet behind me, below the gate at the top of the bank, was an enormous dog. It was some type of husky I think, the kind that pulls a sled, like the dogs in Jack London’s novel, ‘White Fang.' The animal looked as if he had been attacked himself, and more than once. He was missing part of one of his ears, and a long scar ran from his other ear, across one frosted eye and down to the tip of his nose.

  More dogs joined him. One by one the rest of his pack trotted down the bank and took up their places on the towpath behind him, like Lord Voldemort and his death eaters. The hierarchy was evident. Fang was their leader.

  If I had tried to run, I wouldn’t have stood a chance. I was never very skilled at sports. Ma said I ran like a spider - all arms and legs, with no speed or sense of direction. So I played to my strength - if I couldn’t outrun them, I would have to outfox them.

  Taking out my pocket knife, I slashed open the huge bag of kibble in the trolley. It may have been what brought the dogs here in the first place, they must have smelled the food. My biology teacher, Mrs. Hill, said that a dog's nose possesses up to three hundred million olfactory receptors, whereas we humans have only about six million. Also, the proportion of a dog's brain that is adapted to analyzing smells is forty times greater than ours.

  So I figured that if they wanted kibble - I would give them kibble, and gambled that it would keep them busy long enough for me to get away.

  Tipping the whole bag out on the path, I pushed the trolley towards them and ran as fast as I could in the opposite direction, hoping to be less like a spider and more like Roger Bannister.

  I ran until my lungs were burning and my legs were jelly. I never looked back, not even when I could hear them tearing each other apart, fighting for a share of the spoils. Not even when their thundering paws came chasing after me along the towpath, bringing their snarling jaws ever closer.

  When I reached the gangplank, convinced they were right on my heels, I clambered aboard. I turned to see Fang and two of his pack only feet from the edge of the plank as I yanked it onto the deck. Fang skidded to a stop at the side of the boat, but the other dogs collided, bashing into each other, limbs flailing as they slid off the path and into the water. 'Look before you leap...'

  The pack paced up and down the towpath all afternoon. There was no way I was going to risk going out again, so Sal and I shared a large tin of Irish stew for dinner. I didn’t have to help her this time, I just put the bowl down, and she stood and ate it by herself, she is definitely getting stronger, though she is still a little wobbly on her back legs.

  After dinner, I lay down on my bunk to do some reading, but Sal seemed restless and got up and wobbled to the door, sitting down and looking towards me, she raised one paw into the air. Sal must have had owners that loved her once, she is a smart dog, and they had trained her well. I knew immediately what she needed.

  I adjusted her collar so that it would not pull off and tied a short length of rope to it before leading her up on deck. It was growing dark now, and though it had been a while since I had heard the dogs, I was not convinced that they had gone. They knew that there was food here now - they would be back. I lead Sal down the gangplank and onto the grassy bank at the edge of the path, and she did what she needed to do.

  The warm air smelled damp. It was humid, 'balmy' was what my Ma would call weather like this - it was a balmy night.

  The mist drifted up from the water, carpeting the path until it looked like a scene from one of those creepy ghost films Ma used to like. The thought unnerved me, so I pulled on the rope and took Sal back towards the boat. A flash of white caught my eye as a barn owl swooped low over the water and crossed the path ahead of us. It disappeared into the woods on the north side of the canal.

  I have grown to love it here, it's been home for almost a year, but now the dogs know where we are I am not sure it is safe anymore. Is anywhere safe now? 'If you're going through Hell - keep going.' - Winston Churchill.

  16th July

  Hope Flies

  You must know what it’s like. You're dreaming, but are unaware that you are dreaming. After awakening in a panic, you discover the truth - that the terrible situation you were dealing with, was merely a vivid nightmare.

  It happens to me all of the time. That's how it was this morning.

  I was walking down the towpath when, suddenly, the dogs were all around me. Fang came from directly ahead of me, his pack right behind him, their teeth barred as they leapt at me. All at once, the air seemed to pulsate. A mechanical, whirring, thudding sound filled my ears, growing louder and louder until my head throbbed so much that I thought it would explode.
I had not heard that sound since the peak of the plague. It was unmistakable - the sputter, sputter, sputter of a helicopter engine. Looking skyward, I watched the chopper descend, driving a vortex and whipping leaves, litter, and small stones up into my face. The dogs scattered as the thundering machine hovered above me.

  It was at that moment that I awoke in my bed and realised I had been dreaming, and yet I was convinced I could still hear the sound of the chopper. It crossed my mind that I was finally cracking up. Until I noticed Sal, who apparently, has decided that my bed is now her bed too.

  Sal’s ears were pricked, and her head was tilted to one side. She heard it too. Not a dream and not my imagination. I felt my heartbeat quicken.

  I had pictured this day arriving on more than one occasion. The day I discovered I was not alone - that there were other people out there who survived besides me. However, now this fragile hope had become a reality, I felt no relief or joy, only trepidation.